


Grows Old

by paintitb1ack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Season/Series 08, The Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 08:44:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17342246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintitb1ack/pseuds/paintitb1ack
Summary: Sam has his own particular ways of coping with stress. In this instance, his stress is almost entirely due to The Trials. He's completed two out of the three required tasks, but he's getting tired. Fortunately for him - and those to be saved by the completion of The Trials - he's got Dean to help him cope.





	Grows Old

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QuestionableSanity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuestionableSanity/gifts).



“I’ve got an extra blue.” Sam holds the m&m out towards his brother. “You want it?”

Looking up from his laptop, Dean takes the pen he’s been chewing on out of his mouth. “Odd number?”

The boy glances down at the candies he has laid out in front of him. They’re lined up like toy soldiers, all of them with the “m” right side up. The pattern is simple: blue, green, yellow, orange, red, brown. There are exactly nine of each color except for blue, which made it to ten. That’s why the m&m is lying in Sam’s palm instead of on the table. It has to be equal.

Everything has to be equal.

“The blue ones taste different,” Sam lies, tossing the candy at Dean.

“Uh-huh,” the older man grunts, catching it before it can hit him in the face. “So, you plan on giving me the rest of them?”

“The rest of the blue?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, I mean, you said you don’t like them.”

“That’s not...” Sam lightly touches one of his m&ms, a cool panic tickling his chest. “If you want some, I could give you one of each color, or---” He pauses when he sees the way his brother is looking at him, and his voice turns bitter as he says, “You don’t care about the m&ms.”

“Never have, never will.” Dean closes his laptop. “But you haven’t done this shit in almost a year. You remember, right? When you reorganized Bobby’s house?”

Pink chases away the unnatural paleness of Sam’s cheeks as he blushes. Unable to quell the anxiety caused both by his flashbacks and the leviathans, he sorted through all of the food, utensils, books, and spell ingredients in the house, sorting them alphabetically. Unfortunately for Bobby, who took in his rearranged home with a bit of a shock, that was only day one. A few nights later, Sam started over, organizing them from newest to oldest. Then he did it by height. It was after about two weeks of this that Bobby began to complain, prompting Dean to sit Sam down at the kitchen table for a small chat.

“Listen,” he began. “Me and Bobby care about all the shit you’re goin’ through, but you can’t keep messin’ with his house.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “It’s just… everything’s so loud, you know? Doing this… it’s kind of like a distraction.”

“That why you do that thing with the m&ms?”

The boy grimaced. “You noticed that?”

“Kinda difficult not to. Which is why…” Dean reached beneath the table and pulled out a large bucket. “...I got you this.”

Taking the tub from his brother, Sam looked inside. “Army soldiers?” He asked, confused.

 _“Assorted_ army soldiers,” Dean corrected. “You’ve got fifty in here. And I already picked through ‘em. Made sure there’s the same number of each guy.” He watched as his little brother picked up one of the little, green men. “I figured it’d keep you out of Bobby’s hair for a while.”

And it did, for almost a month. Then the leviathan burned Bobby’s house to the ground, eradicating all that it contained, spell books and assorted army soldiers alike.

Now, nearly a year later, Sam has fallen back into old habits. The Men of Letters library has been organized and reorganized three times already, the food in the refrigerator twice. With none of the stores near the bunker advertising the sale of army soldiers, Dean bought six bags of m&ms instead. The two men have been sitting at the long library table for about twenty minutes now, the younger painstakingly organizing the first bag of candies while the older anxiously looks on.

“I hear they’re gonna kill him this season.”

Dean furrows his brow. “What?”

“The Doctor.” Sam scans the layout of the candies to ensure that they are perfectly proportioned. “Maybe they’ll cast Ben Whishaw when Matt Smith regenerates.”

“You know I don’t watch that show, right?” Blue smears Dean’s thumb as the m&m begins to soften in his grasp. “Besides, isn’t he involved in some spy shit?”

_“Spy shit?”_

“You know what I mean.”

“James Bond,” Sam mutters, picking up the first blue m&m. “You’d think you’d know his name by now, considering how many times you’ve watched _Goldeneye_.”

Dean leans back, arms crossed over his chest. “ _I_ wasn’t the one who carried a Pierce Brosnan pin-up around in my backpack for five years.”

The younger man flushes red. “It wasn’t a _pin-up.”_

“Then what was it?”

Looking away, Sam pops the candy into his mouth. “Not any worse than your Jeff Goldblum body pillow.”

“Hey, _you_ were the one who bought that for me,” Dean fires back. “And it basically lives in my closet now.”

“‘Basically’ being the operative word.” Sam pushes the m&m to the back of his mouth, swallowing hard in an attempt to get it down. But his throat knots up and he finds himself coughing the small chocolate into the wastebasket next to his chair. Saliva dangles from his lips, what should be thin and clear now thick and pink. It’s as he’s spitting out the rest that he notices that the trash can is empty, the bloody tissues obviously having been thrown out by Dean when he wasn’t looking. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he keeps his gaze off of his older brother.

“Hey.”

Green eyes flick up at Dean for the briefest of moments, but it’s long enough to see the extra blue m&m that the man is holding out to him.

Sam quickly plucks the candy from his hand and places it in the empty space at the beginning of the first row. He needs to talk about something, anything to keep Dean’s mind off of the trials. They’d argued enough about them already; and besides, the debate over whether or not he should finish them is getting silly, what with him already having accomplished two of the three tasks. Sam leans against the table. “Any word on Cas?”

Dean shrugs. “Still in the wind.”

“And the angel tablet?”

“Far as I know, he’s still got it.”

“You think he took it to Naomi?”

“I don’t know _what_ to think, man. This Cas…” Dean sighs heavily, rubbing his neck. “He ain’t the one I remember.”

 _i’m sorry,_ Sam wants to say, but what is the point? Apologies will do no good, especially since he’s not the one at fault. If Cas were here right now, Sam would take him by the lapels of his stupid trenchcoat and demand an explanation. The younger Winchester didn’t need to see what happened to his brother inside the crypt; the bloodstains on his shirt and jacket were proof enough of what Cas did to him. Sam has never been the revenge type, but he could do for an explanation. They could _all_ do for an explanation.

“Actually…” Dean gets to his feet, ignoring the look of confusion on his little brother’s face. “Wait here.” Then, without another word, he leaves the room.

Sam doesn’t bother to call after him. Instead he looks back down at his candies, eyes darting from color to color to ensure once again that they are evenly spaced. There is still one more trial left for them -

_me_

\- to complete. Sam isn’t sure how much more his body can take, but his drive is strong enough for him to know that he _will_ finish this final task, even if it kills him. These could be his last few weeks on earth, but he’ll do it for Dean. He’ll never say it out loud, but the rest of the world can go fuck itself. This will give Dean a life, and that’s all that really matters in the end.

Sam doesn’t notice that his brother has reentered the room until he sees the large, netted bag that thumps down on the table across from him.

Pulling a letter from the bag, Dean tosses it to Sam, who catches it before it can land on the candies. “Guess who.”

_cas_

The name jumps in Sam’s mind instantly, and he flips open the paper to read what their friend wrote on the inside.

_The chef of hell’s kitchen claims that certain Iranian fruits foster good health. Since Mr. Ramsay is not a demon, I defer to his good judgement._

_Cas._

More than a little amused, Sam places the letter aside and points towards the bag. “Are those…?”

“Pomegranates.” Dean nods. “I found them in the kitchen after we got back from saving Bobby. Turns out, even after all that shit Naomi did to his brain, he still cares what happens to us.”

Sam smiles lightly. “Still would be good to see him again.”

“Yeah. But in the meantime…” Reaching into the bag, Dean lobs one of the red fruits at his brother.

It’s an easy catch, but the smell - which normally wouldn’t be that noticeable - hits Sam like a truck. Vomit fights for purchase in his throat, and he presses the back of his hand against his lips. It takes a few seconds, but once his stomach settles, he rolls the pomegranate back across the table. “I can’t.”

Dean watches him for a long moment, slipping the fruit back into the bag as he returns to his seat. “You sure you don’t wanna go to the hospital?” He asks quietly. “They’ve got the whole IV thing where they pump the food right into you. No chewing required.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam pinches his bottom lip between two fingers. “And what am I supposed to tell them? ‘Hey, Doctor Smith, as it so happens, I’ve got God juice---”

“Don’t say juice.”

“---swirling around inside me’.”

“Even worse.”

“I’d be committed. Again.”

Dean spreads his arms. “You got a better idea?”

“Yeah.” He steels himself. “I finish the trials.”

“Sam, I--- wait, you sayin’ ‘Doctor Smith’...” Dean furrows his brow. “Was that in reference to---”

“Matt Smith, the Eleventh Doctor?” Clasping his hands in front of him, Sam gives his brother a teasing grin. “I thought you didn’t watch the show.”

Dean scoffs, “What, I can’t enjoy a little Rose Tyler every now and then?”

Eyebrows go up. “Yeah. _That’s_ who you watch it for.”

“Alright, sure, Matt’s kinda cute, but that doesn’t mean---”

“And Tennant?”

A shrug. “Yeah, him too.”

“And Eccleston?”

If looks could kill, Sam would be dead ten times over. “You just gonna go through every guy on the show?”

“John Barrowman?”

“I knew I’d regret coming out to you.”

Sam chuckles as he settles back in his chair. It took a long time for either of them to be comfortable enough to talk about their sexualities with each other, but it wasn’t like neither of them had any idea. Sam was fully aware of Dean’s affinity for flirting with anyone unfortunate enough to come within a five mile radius. Dean, on the other hand, had heard more than enough about Sam’s old roommate Brady to make a few educated guesses of his own.

“That why you want Ben Whishaw to be the Doctor?” Dean asks, adding saucily, “You got a little thing for _our new_ _Quartermaster?”_

Laughter bursts from Sam’s mouth at the final three words, the blush that teases at his cheeks easily surpassed by his intense amusement at what his older brother is implying. Truth be told, while Dean would probably be satisfied with getting topped by Pierce Brosnan, Sam would give anything to go a round with the smaller, lankier Ben Whishaw. The only thing that could make this fantasy better would be if Sam wore a Bond-esque tux, the white of his dress shirt spattered red with the blood of the evildoers he’d killed just moments prior. His gun, tucked away in one shoulder holster, would tap gently against the fictional Quartermaster’s sweater-vested side as Sam leaned in to touch their lips together.

Of course, it was just a fantasy.

Sam’s laughter suddenly dissolves into coughs, and he raises hand to his face just as the first line of blood slips from his nose. Unfortunately for him, Dean can easily see the red that spills between his fingers. Both men get to their feet at the same time, Sam barely managing a strained “‘scuse me” as he pushes away from the table. The taste of copper burns the back of his throat, and he barely notices the way the m&m’s clatter across the table and spill out onto the floor.

Dean reaches for his brother, but Sam is already gone, fleeing quickly from the library. The older man moves after him, sprinting down the hall and rounding a corner in time to see the boy close the door to his room. Dean doesn’t need to jiggle the handle to know that he locked himself in, but he does anyway, hoping that he’s wrong so he doesn’t have to break down the door.

He’s not wrong.

It takes three tries and a bruised shoulder to take out the lock, but he enters the room to see that the space is empty and - surprise, surprise - the bathroom door is closed as well. “Sam!” He calls out, ear pressed up against the wood. He can hear his little brother coughing, choking on the blood that’s invaded his throat. “Sam!” He says again, louder this time, but it isn’t until he hears the loud bang of the boy hitting the floor that he breaks down this door as well.

The first thing Dean sees is the red stain on the curve of the tub. Then his eyes dart towards the barely conscious body of his brother curled up next to the sink, and he drops to his knees and pulls Sam into his lap. Blood mats the boy’s hair, making it clear that the mark on the tub is from Sam hitting his head on the porcelain rim. Turning on the tub, Dean reaches up for one of the many towels hanging on the bar across from the sink and soaks it in water. He presses it against Sam’s face, murmuring his name as he cleans the blood from his skin. The white cloth now a dark pink, he tosses it into the tub.

Sam groans loudly as he brother slips two arms beneath his body and pulls him against his chest. The tears that pool in his eyes, however, are not so much from pain as they are from embarrassment. As the younger brother, he’s never been assumed to be the stronger of the two, but he’d like it if this once he could do this himself. He wishes he could accomplish what he set out to do without having to rely on someone else to save him, to _coddle_ him. That isn’t to say he dislikes Dean for helping him; on the contrary, it’s good that someone has his back. But can’t he do this by himself? Can’t he prove that he can accomplish something _without_ big brother’s help? But Dean thinks he screws up everything he tries, that he can’t be allowed to make any decisions without consulting a chaperone - mainly Dean himself.

“Do you trust me?”

Dean looks at his little brother as he lays him on his bed. “What?”

Pulling Dean onto the mattress as well, Sam repeats, “The trials. Do you trust me to finish them?”

“Of course.” The older man leans back against he headboard. “But I don’t think---”

Sam shifts against his chest and Dean immediately cuts himself off. There’ll be more time to talk about this later.

“I’m sorry,” the boy murmurs into his brother’s shirt.

“You got nothin’ to apologize for.” Dean tightens his grip around Sam’s shoulders. “Hey, you remember that song dad used to sing to us? When he was in a good mood, I mean.”

“Of course.”

“Well, I’m not gonna sing that.”

Sam stifles a laugh. “You’re gonna sing?”

“Yeah.”

Curling one of his legs around Dean’s, Sam grunts, “I don’t think my head can handle something like AC/DC right now.”

“Well, good,” Dean says, “because I wasn’t planning on it.”

“No?”

With a shrug, the older Winchester replies, “I thought maybe you’d like something different. Like you said, with that headache---”

“A song that _isn’t_ classic rock?” Sam looks up at him. _“You?”_

Dean gives him a playful smack. “Shut up and listen. But don’t fall asleep. People with concussions aren’t supposed to do that.”

“Too late, jerk,” Sam says, closing his eyes.

“Bitch.”

Sam pokes him in the ribs, but the action is tired and weak. “You gonna sing to me or what?"

Tucking his brother’s head beneath his chin, Dean slows his breathing so that he’s matching Sam’s pace. There’s a gentle exhale against his collarbone, and he closes his eyes too, pushing any thoughts of the trials to the back of his mind. They are safe; here and now, they are safe. And they will continue to be, if Dean has anything to say about it.

So with soft voice he begins to sing, lips brushing against his little brother’s hair: _“I’ll keep you safe… try hard to concentrate… hold out your hand… can you feel the weight of it? The whole world at your fingertips? Don’t be, don’t be afraid… Our mistakes, they were bound to be made…”_ He can feel Sam sigh against his chest, the boy’s smile like one he’s not had in a while as his older brother sings him to sleep, _“But I promise I’ll keep you safe.”_

**Author's Note:**

> WOW it's been a long time since I've written. Again, I won't bore you with the details, but this is to fulfill QuestionableSanity's prompt of "Anything with Trials!Sam getting affection" (giant mood by the way). This fic is a bit angsty but I hope it's also got enough fluff to make y'all happy.  
> Also - now I'm going to go back to writing 'The Arsonist'.  
> Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!  
> (Oh and the song Dean sings is ‘I’ll Keep You Safe’ by Sleeping At Last)


End file.
